Chapter 18: The Shore House

My phone buzzed in my hand while Bess was still crying into it.

A text.

A photo of Archie in a towel on a striped couch, holding a juice box, looking annoyed.

Under it: "Pop's shore house. You know the one. Come alone, June, and bring a pen. If I see my brother, I leave with him."

I showed Gianni.

He read it once and the color went out of his face.

"Margate," he said. "Ninety minutes."

"You're driving. And you're stopping at the end of the street."

"Juniper."

"He said alone. He means it. You know he means it."

Gianni's jaw moved.

Behind us, in the hall, Lucia had both hands over her mouth.

"He took him from a pool," she said. "In front of a lifeguard. He's lost his mind."

"No," I said. "He's found the last thing he's got."

The shore house was dark except for one window.

Gianni cut his headlights at the corner of the block, a hundred yards back, and killed the engine.

"Ten minutes," he said. "Then I'm coming in."

"Twenty."

"Ten."

I got out.

The ocean was loud behind the house, and the air tasted like salt.

The front door was unlocked.

The living room still had sheets over half the furniture.

Archie was on the striped couch in a towel and his swim trunks, his hair still wet.

He had a juice box in one hand and Bess's tablet on his lap.

Carmine sat in the armchair across from him.

His tie was off. His gold watch was on the coffee table, next to a pistol and a stack of papers.

He'd been drinking. Not four. More.

"Mom," Archie said. "He doesn't have any snacks."

I crossed the room and put my arms around my son, towel and wet hair and all, and held on.

He let me, for a brief moment.

"You're squishing the juice box," he said.

I let go and sat down beside him, between him and the armchair.

"Here's how it goes, June," Carmine said.

He pushed the stack of papers across the coffee table.

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